Smoky Mountain Hi!

I really did not want to write tonight. With the year finally coming to an end, and a major writing project teetering on the fickle razor’s edge of a final completion, my plans for the last evening of 2020 were rather unspectacular. I was just going to hunker down here in my rather unremarkable bubble, safely insulated from the sickly city streets of Wayne, turn on the playlist hinting at mediocre successes just around the corner, and stare blankly at a meaninglessly sterile screen. Then my phone bleeped. Five simple words sent from the heights of the Smoky Mountains greeted my eyes when I managed to wrestle my phone into a sufficiently unlocked state. Five words that were enough to change my whole evening. I hadn’t …

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Run, Forrest! Run!

These words that I write are my confession and I feel confident expressing them within the context of a pandemic’s roaming scourge, trusting that they will be strong enough to weather the inevitable scrutiny. I realize that with all that has happened, perhaps feelings or opinions of me have understandably changed.  And that is okay. I acknowledge that there is a time for brutal honesty.   And that there is a time for a gentler, though more unfamiliar, touch.  I just could never successfully make that distinction. People everywhere around me are hurting and breaking. And I am here on the sidelines, watching them hurt, with no practical avenues available to actually offer help.  And that feeling of helplessness is mercilessly suffocating my spirit.  It has me …

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Kid’s Table

It is a silent city’s final consequence, burdened by the feathered weight of a damaged angel’s broken wings.  Under the unexpected wreckage echoes a familiar, righteous wail, desperately screaming for an answer to what memories still live behind yellow eyes. Jaundiced cowardice.  Inebriated discoloration.  What matters the label when the world still burns and coughs, sputtering deathbed confessions ultimately destined for publication, much to the scavenging crowd’s grim delight?  What context can be teased from a final calculation when the underlying equation itself makes no sense? Everyone seems distracted in their naked delight witnessing the carnal carnival of someone else’s total collapse; everybody wanna see a falling star.  Distant disasters distractingly entertain and obfuscate, forcing the focus from introspective injustices to a more entertainingly contaminated conflagration. …

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wingssite

Not an Ode to Spring

It’s the hangman’s song of an unwanted winter’s first dance playing out across the face of another pale overnight.  Notes, heavy and hard, punch into my skull with predetermined regularity and there is much pleasure found in that particular pain.  But then, she never really did like the music, so I can only guess that she will probably disapprove of all of this, too. Not that the unique disparity of our discontent properly justifies anything- I simply have no proper excuse for myself so I will responsibly carry my share of that blame.  And given the turbulent nature of our histories so inconsistently intertwined, I honestly find genuine hilarity in that particular disconnect. But then, I have never been even moderately skilled at reaching out.  So …

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Winter Stomp

There is often a sizable vacuum left behind in the absence of a steady influx of fresh ridiculousness rolling into my life to help fill the gaps of pandemically inspired boredom and I have discovered that some semblance of a temporary balance might be found within the gushing inrush of unexpected nostalgia, surging up from a hesitant place to help fill that incessant hunger to feel something.  And when the familiar and intimate transcontinental texting lifelines last night understandably petered out in the crushing end-grip of another day of exhausted adulting, I was left on my own to find a way of filling another isolated night’s empty hours. And we all know that never ends particularly well for me, here alone and unsupervised, caught in the …

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